


Have a Little Faith

by cosmicpaladinavenger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean struggles with his sexuality, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Healing, Homophobic John Winchester, Internal Conflict, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Sam is supportive, castiel is precious, castiel just wants to do something nice for dean, no beta we die like men, when an angel of the lord loves a righteous man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpaladinavenger/pseuds/cosmicpaladinavenger
Summary: Dean is both stubborn and scared. Thanks to years of trauma, he's terrified to confront his feelings for Castiel. But surely a profound bond such as theirs and a chance at legitimate happiness can break or at least rattle the veteran hunter's resolve.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 81





	1. A Christmas Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> I intended for this to be a smutty, Christmas-themed one-shot, but it got away from me and turned into what I anticipate will be four to five chapters of fluff, some angst, and eventual smut between stubborn hunter and our beloved Castiel. Please bear with me as I navigate what I hope will be a fic filled with rawness and honesty, but also heart-melting gooiness. 
> 
> No beta. All mistakes are sadly mine.

When Dean returns to the bunker, he finds himself smack dab in the middle of what appears to be a Hallmark movie. Bing Crosby is playing through a set of shotty speakers, there’s red and green tinsel, and what appear to be hand-cut paper snowflakes, covering the entirety of the map table, and on Sam’s laptop, a virtual crackling fire is on loop. Once his nose catches up to his eyes and ears, he’s hit with a scent that causes him to salivate: pie. Apple with a heap ton of cinnamon to be exact. Dean doesn’t know whether he should pinch himself or turn around, get back into Baby, and drive away.

Dean loves Christmas, but he and Sam haven’t celebrated properly in years. He thinks it’s safe to assume that his baby brother isn’t behind this, but that leaves none other than—

“Dean, you’re home!” The angel announces as if it’s news to Dean himself.

Dean’s mouth opens only to close shortly after. Cas is wearing a Santa Claus-inspired apron and there’s a bow nestled amidst his thick dark strands of hair.

“What happened in here?” Dean gapes.

Before the other man can respond, another voice echoes through the bunker. “A Christmas explosion,” Sam huffs. Dean notes the lack of malice in his little brother’s voice and chuckles.

“There are worse things,” The eldest brother shrugs.

“That’s hardly the reaction I was hoping for.” The angel groans. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, Dean?” He questions earnestly.

Dean can’t help but notice the concern in Cas’ voice as if Dean’s reaction is of the utmost concern. He knows Cas knows that Christmas is special to Dean, but this over-the-top display can’t be for him, _can it?_

Dean attempts to squash the way his heart speeds up at the thought.

“I’m going to need a beer,” he says.

When Cas turns to head back into the kitchen, Dean’s eyes notice a floury handprint on the back of the angel’s slacks. He groans and laughs simultaneously. Cas ushers him to the fridge where there’s a plethora of holiday-themed brews. His head spins as the Angel of the Lord spews names and types and the hints of flavors he can expect to find in each. _Since when did dorky Cas become a beer expert?_ He tells Cas to surprise him and when he takes a sip of the festive drink, he’s pleasantly surprised as a lightly spiced ale dances across his taste buds.

“Not bad,” he announces. Cas’s eyes light up at that.

“Excellent! If my calculations are correct, dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”

_Dinner?!_

“You made dinner?”

“Yes. I’ve read that Christmas dinner is a tradition for many families. But while turkey or a ham seem common, I made meatloaf. It’s Grandma Beth’s recipe.” Cas says matter-of-factly.

“And _who_ is Grandma Beth?”

“Some gentle, elderly lady on the internet—who claims to make the very best meatloaf in the world. Which seems boastful, but she had a kind face so I’m hopeful,” Cas shares. “I also followed her apple pie recipe.”

Dean almost forgot about the pie his nose sniffed out with ease.

“Jeez, Cas. I almost regret having those two cheeseburgers for lunch. You outdid yourself, man,” he says. “I gotta ask though, what’s the occasion—aside from the fact that today’s Christmas?”

“You are, Dean.”

“Me? I’m the occasion?”

“Well, you’re not the occasion itself, but you are the reason for the occasion. Christmas in itself is quite silly, but humans love their holidays and I wanted to make this one special for you.”

In that very moment, Dean is beyond grateful he hasn’t taken another sip of his beer. Otherwise, he’s reasonably certain he would have choked on it or spewed it unceremoniously across the room. He tries his best to rein in the blush he feels spreading through his cheeks while thinking of a response.

“I, uh… “ he stalls. “You’re, you’re truly something else, Cas.”

The angel nods in agreeance. “You’re right; technically I am ‘something else.’”

The eldest Winchester brother laughs. Against his better judgment, Dean decides to clarify. “What I meant was that you’re special and kind and… thank you. Thank you for all,” Dean gestures to the holiday explosion, “of this.”

Cas’s face welcomes a wide, toothy grin. “You’re very welcome, Dean,” he says enthusiastically.

And with that, Dean is pushed out of the kitchen and instructed to wait to return until Cas gives him and Sam the all-clear that dinner is ready. Dean grins and nods and goes to find Sam for the time being. The younger, yet taller brother, is in the library with his nose in a book—perhaps an attempted replacement for his laptop that has been intercepted by Cas.

Sam starts speaking before even glancing at Dean. “He did all of that for you, you know?”

Dean takes a nice long gulp from the beer in his hand to buy himself some time. But when he fails to respond quickly enough for Sam’s liking, he’s met by his brother’s quirked and teasing eyebrow.

“So you do know,” Sam confirms.

Dean feels sweat gathering on the nape of his neck and notices how dry his mouth has suddenly become. Since when did it get so stuffy in here? He wants to bolt from the knowingness of his brother’s gaze, but he's aware that’ll be even more telling so he just holds his ground. He fishes for something to say but before he can utter a single word, Sam is returning to the old text laid out in front of him.

Just when he thinks he’s dodged a bullet and can breathe a sigh of relief, Sam pipes up again. “Figure it out, Dean. He’s someone special.”

_So special._

Dean drops onto the chair across from Sam and lets his beer clank as it meets the dark wood of the table. He huffs. “I’m scared, Sammy.”

He knows the vulnerability and rawness of his voice are prominent, and of course it is, he’s essentially alluding to the fact that he, Dean Winchester, son of John Winchester, is not only terrified over matters of the heart but also matters of the heart that involve his best friend—another man.

Although he doesn’t dare look up to witness Sam’s reaction to his confession, he hears the unmistakable sound of a book closing. He’s certain his brother’s full attention is now directed at him, which causes his jaw to clench. Sure, they’ve had heart-to-hearts over the years, but rarely about romantic love and pining and longing for partnership—and certainly not about this.

“I think fear is normal when it comes to this,” Sam says calmly.

He hates that Sam is being vague, he hoped one of them would be brave enough to just spell it out, to state, plain as day, what this profound bound truly is. But as much as he’d rather not sugarcoat it, he can’t find it in himself to say it, so he decides on: “What do you mean by _this_?”

Sam shakes his head and huffs. “You really want me to go there?” Sam hesitates until Dean gives me a firm nod. “Well, first off, you two bicker like a married couple already—”  
Dean lets out a noise of protest but Sam continues anyway, so he settles for an irritated glare instead.

“I mean it, Dean. It’s like yin and yang at work. He’s awkward, reserved, and somehow still innocent, while you’re crass and loud with a tough-exterior. And when you’re apart, both of you suffer somehow. But together… balance is restored. And even without the profound-bound-created-in-hell-by-an-Angel-of-the-Lord, you and Cas—you’re good for each other. And maybe that’s not what you want to hear, but there’s just something… _there_. Certainly love,” he states without room for argument, “But maybe even companionship. And if that means a shot at happiness, then why wouldn’t you swallow the fear and find out what’s there?”

The way Sam says the word love without an ounce of hesitation slams into Dean’s chest. As if loving another man isn’t even the hard part. Dean doesn’t know how to do this, how to just get over what he’s been fed by his father, his flesh and blood, since he was a kid.

Sam must register the turmoil churning inside Dean because he suddenly has a sickeningly sympathetic look plastered on his face.

“Dean, you don’t have to adhere to the bullshit standards Dad taught us made a man. He was wrong about a lot of things. Who you love doesn’t alter your integrity as a...”

Sam continues to talk but Dean begins to block it out. His ears are ringing and his body is entering the point of fight or flight. Dean can feel tears welling up in his eyes so he makes the quick decision to flee. He barely registers himself doing any of it, but somehow he manages to get up from the chair, clear the table, and make it to the door. As he turns the knob, he feels a warm calloused hand grip his arm in concern. _Dammit, Sam._

“I can’t, Sammy.” He chokes out. “Tell Cas… tell him I’m sorry.”

“For what, Dean?” He sighs.

“For missing dinner.” He grits out.

Before his brother can protest, he twists the doorknob and bolts toward his room, navigating the hallways and corners with swift ease. Once inside, door locked, Dean flops on the memory foam mattress and throws a heavy punch into one of the pillows. He’s trying so hard not to all-out sob that his teeth are grinding together causing a sharp pain to emanate through his jaw. But this is what he wants, he wants pain and anger over sadness and heartache. He’d rather abuse himself than truly feel what’s gnawing at his insides. He’s used to this. He’s built for this. He can handle this. The alternative, however, facing what his heart is yearning for at its core? Dean’s been on the run from those desires forever. Always one step ahead, always hyper-aware of the next landmine lurking beneath his feet.

That was until tonight. Until Cas went and made somewhat of a grand gesture. Until Sam had enough of his bullshit and called him out. Until he let his poker face fall when called out on said bullshit. Until he actually, for a millisecond, considered admitting how he felt. How he felt about another man.

For the next two hours—but what feels like an eternity—he tosses and turns in his bed as his emotions mimic the discomfort and anxiety coursing through his body. From one moment to the next, Dean is caught on a spectrum that slides unstably from anger, directed at himself and others, to hope and longing for even a chance at happiness with Castiel.

Dean is frustrated that he ran out on Sam, that he was too chickenshit to face what his brother was so willing to confront, to finally put the trauma and backward beliefs their father had passed on behind them for good. Dean wishes he could be as defiant as Sammy, to know that what’s been taking place in his heart and soul since he met the angel isn’t something to fight against or deem weak or wrong just because John Winchester all but said so.

And then there’s the catalyst for all of this. Castiel. The man, angel, celestial being, whatever, that left a mark and created a bond so strong with Dean to the point he can no longer ignore the way he aches for his companionship. There's no more pretending that what Dean feels is trivial. The hope he once had that his desire for unbridled connection with Cas would vanish the longer he fought or ignored is not only null and void, but something Dean isn't sure he even wants to come to fruition anymore.

As his mind reels, Dean brings his right hand up to his left bicep and squeezes. Although faded, the mark of the angel, his angel, always manages to ground him in the midst of external, and currently internal, chaos. The action reminds Dean to breathe and as he does, he imagines Cas’ hand in place of his own. A calm and yet claiming gesture that sends shivers through his body.

_You can’t keep up this facade, Dean. He’s it for you. Cas is the one your soul has been and will always be reaching for._


	2. You Deserve Whatever You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping my efforts to capture Dean's intensity and humor, along with Cas', are working! There's a bit of angst, but some hefty fluff in there, too.

Dean is scrambling up off the bed and marching toward the door. He has no clue what his plan is, but at this point, he’ll swallow his pride, get down on his knees, and beg the angel for forgiveness, for another chance to do this right. But when he makes it to the table, expecting or at least hoping, to find Castiel there, he’s greeted by a depressing sight. 

Every chair is empty. And the room, while still decorated to the nines, exudes the air of a party that ended far too early or never even got the chance to happen. He spots a plate of food at the head of the table and sighs. He thinks of all the work Cas put into the night, from preparing dish after dish, whipping up dessert, and turning the bunker into a holiday snowglobe—and all of it simply to make Dean smile. And he didn’t show because he was too afraid to face the possibility of happiness and let someone else put him first. 

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, trying to sort out his next move. 

_The kitchen._

As he approaches the kitchen, Dean hears faint voices in conversation. Realizing it must be Sam and Cas, he hesitates just before the door and listens. 

“Thanks again for dinner, Cas. Everything was delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Sam. I left a plate out for Dean. It’s a shame he wasn’t feeling well.” Cas responds, not fully succeeding at covering his disappointment, Dean notes with a frown.

“Yeah, must be a 24-hour bug or something. He would have loved all of this.”

Sam covered for him. Dean releases a sigh before he can think better of it and freezes at the sound of footsteps growing closer to where he’s hiding out. Before he can get caught, he puffs up his chest, rounds the corner, and steps into the kitchen. 

“Hey, guys. Sorry I missed dinner.” Cas freezes and Sam moves to stand from where he's leaning against the counter.

“It’s okay. Are you feeling better?” Cas asks, disappointment now replaced by utter concern. 

Dean fights every fiber of his being that wants him to throw his body down on the floor and gravel at Cas’ feet like a kicked dog. He doesn’t deserve the angel’s sympathy or forgiveness or understanding. What he deserves is for Sam to call him out and for Cas to hold a grudge that spans more than an eternity. And, no, not just for missing Cas’ four-course meal, but for being classic Dean Winchester, for repressing his feelings and pushing anything and everything good out of his atmosphere. 

“Sam, uh, would it be cool if I talked to Cas alone?” Dean says, without looking at his brother, guilty eyes directed at Cas.

Sam nods. “Of course.” But before he can make his way out, Cas puts a hand out in front of Sam to stop him. 

“Wait, take a piece of the pie with you,” the angel says as he spins toward the counter in search of a knife and the whipped cream. 

Dean shuffles awkwardly from side to side as he waits for Cas to dish a slice up. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him as he refuses to look up. But when Sam releases a terribly fake cough, he forces his gaze to meet his brother’s. 

“Tell him how you feel,” Sam mouths impatiently. 

“Shut up!” Dean silently yells back. 

Before the two can continue their hushed bickering session, Cas hands Sam a glorious looking plate that causes Dean’s empty stomach to grumble. 

Cas must notice because once Sam is on his way out, the angel’s attention is zoned in on Dean’s gurgling belly.

“I know you were experiencing some sort of stomach disturbance, but it seems to me you need food. So what will it be, dinner or pie?”

Dean’s eyes go soft. _How is he even real and why does he even like me?_ “My mother would probably be disappointed but I’m going to go with the dessert before dinner option,” Dean nods with an uncharacteristically shy smirk. 

Cas offers a somewhat somber smile in return at the mention of Mary. “You deserve whatever your heart, or in this case stomach, desires.” 

Dean’s chest clenches at that, so he masks it with an ill-timed joke. “An angel encouraging gluttony?” He scoffs, pretending to be appalled. 

With nothing but an eye roll, Cas turns toward the counter to dish up the homemade pie. As he watches Cas move methodically around the kitchen, his mind drifts to thoughts of his mother. He wonders what she might say if she found her first son in this predicament—afraid to honor his love of someone fully. He’d like to think she’d be a little pushy and progressive like Sam. He always did take after her whereas Dean saw himself as John’s prodigy. His shadow, always trying to measure up to the broad stature and harsh edges that made his father one of the greatest hunters. Years ago, Dean could say, without an ounce of hesitation, that he was following in his dad’s footsteps, but now? Things were different. _He_ was different. Dean wasn’t John. Sam, Cas, and Bobby made that clear, even if Dean still struggled to step into his own definition of being a man. 

Before he can get sucked too far down into the pit of despair his mind is supplying, the blue-eyed, thick-haired angel turns on his heel and smiles at Dean in triumph, holding two plates of pie and whipped cream that are surely on the verge of toppling over. 

“Come on cowboy, let’s eat.”

Dean’s stomach grumbles again but this time something deeper in his gut heats up at Cas’ use of a nickname. “Don’t have to tell me twice, partner.” He quips with mock machismo, attempting to hide even a spark of arousal. 

Minus Dean’s genuine moans over how delicious the pie is, they eat in relative silence. Although he wants to say more and make an attempt at conveying his gratitude for Cas’ efforts, he’s enjoying the quiet company. But he knows he’ll have to swallow his nerves and make a more obvious and concerted attempt at apologizing for his abrupt absence earlier. 

With one more spoonful of the divine dessert, Dean is satiated. He looks down at his plate and is tempted to lick the leftover globs of whipped cream and crumbs from the crust off of it, but he somehow reins himself in. The spoon in his hand clatters against the plate and he leans back to place a heavy palm on his even heavier stomach. “You outdid yourself, man.” He declares looking up to see Cas gazing affectionately at him. 

“I don’t know if you can say that. It was my first time making pie in this realm so there was nothing to outdo.”

“Well, then you outdid Grandma Beth.”

“Blasphemy,” Cas huffs, shying away from the compliment. As the angel stands to clear the table, removing any and all evidence of their indulgent snack, Dean knows it’s now or never. 

“Cas,” he all but whispers, letting his feet carry him toward the counter where the angel’s back is facing him. 

“Hmm?” He mumbles focused on tidying up the kitchen.

Dean is honestly relieved to be talking to Cas’ back at this moment. He thinks it might actually increase the odds that he doesn’t chicken out twice in one evening. “Look, I need to apologize—”

“Dean,” Cas says wiping around, quick to forget the rather disastorous kitchen, “You can’t control what your body does…”

 _Ain’t that the truth._ Dean smirks momentarily at the unintended innuendo. 

“Yes, I’m saddened that you missed dinner but you weren’t feeling well. There’s no need for you to apologize any further.”

Dean shakes his head, whether in disbelief at Cas’ logical rationale and understanding or his annoyance at himself for lying, he’s not sure. Probably both. Dean being amazed by the angel and fed up with his own antics in the same frame of time seems like a pretty common dichotomy. 

“I wasn’t sick, Cas.” He blurts out in a rush, eager to fess up before he digs himself deeper. 

Cas squints, his head tilting like a confused puppy. Dean really wishes he wouldn’t do that. 

“But Sam said—”

“He covered for me,” Dean sighs, watching the angel closely, hoping something other than disappointment and perplexion will make its way across Cas’ features. “You can be mad, Cas.”

“I am a little hurt but more so confused. From what I’ve gathered, you like the holiday of Christmas, and I know you enjoy eating, and you seem to tolerate my company, so why would you lie to avoid a combination of those things?”

Dean’s frustration roars at even the implication that Cas thinks he might not like being around him. “Tolerate? I love your company, Cas. You’re my best friend. You have to know that, don’t you?”

Cas’ eyes soften. “I believe you. But then, why the cover-up?”

“Sam and I had an argument of sorts. O-over you a-and me,” he explains, waving a hand between their bodies. Cas’ head tilts to the other side, a curious look forcing his eyebrows to scrunch. 

Dean _knows_ that look. Knows the angel is not only studying him at this point but also tuning in to his soul. 

“Explain, Dean.” Cas all but demands, his tone dangerously low. 

Dean is certain he must be exuding a state of panic already but before he can stop his feet from moving, he finds himself pacing a strip of the cold kitchen floor. 

“I promise I’ll explain, but before I do, can I ask you one thing?”

“Of course.”

“Why’d you do all of this for me?”

Cas swallows and his eyes shift away and from Dean for a second before reconnecting to his gaze with renewed determination. “Because I love you and your happiness is important to me.”  
  
Dean's pacing ceases and he gulps. He's not sure if he was expecting that answer, but the way his heart flutters is evidence enough that he wasn’t truly prepared. This selfless, magnificent being is not only concerned about his happiness, but he loves him. _He loves him._

Sobs threatened to claw their way out of Dean’s throat at the confession but his resolve to shove them down wins out. Instead of relief or joy, he’s overwhelmed by the belief that he’s not good enough to be on the receiving end of basically anything when it comes to Castiel. He shakes his head and looks at the almost raven-haired man before him with tears in his eyes.

“Please don’t, Cas. I’m not worth any of this and I’m certainly not worthy of you.” The angel steps forward, seemingly ready to put a halt to the beginning of Dean’s self-loathing monologue, but the hunter is quick to continue, fearful of losing steam. “I’m crass and stubborn as hell. I'm blinded by anger half the time and I don’t think twice about hurting those who get in my way. I use cockiness to hide all the broken and bruised pieces that make me utterly impossible to love. And the thought of you loving me is terrifying because I know that it’s bound to end in disappointment and heartbreak. I… I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have, Cas, so please, just...” The words die on his lips and his shoulders crumple at the thought of hurting Cas in the past, present, or future. He doesn’t want to be the reason for Cas’ earthly pain any longer, so the sooner this ends, the better his odds are. He looks up to see the angel's eyes flash and he braces himself.

“Dean Winchester, it’s absurd just how wrong you are. And I will argue that until the day you grow old and perish, and even then I’ll find you in the next realm and I’ll start again.” Cas declares, stepping forward with his hands balled into fists at his side. “You may be stubborn and reckless and intense, but you are so much more. You contain multitudes, Dean. To think of yourself as one-dimensional is a crime I will not let you commit. Not on my watch.” He states, head shaking. “How dare you say or think you are impossible to love. You are loved, rightfully so, by many, including me. And you give that love back without hesitation in ways others fail to fathom. I consider myself lucky to stand in your presence, and I would truly consider myself unworthy of _your_ unfiltered, unabashed love.”

Dean sees red and rushes toward the angel with enough force that Cas releases an involuntary grunt when his back meets the stainless steel of the counter. The pots and pans dangling overhead clang violently, the heat in Dean’s eyes flaring in tandem. His hips keep the angel pinned while his palms and fingers grip Cas’ biceps, the material of the stark white button-down bunching in his unforgiving hold. 

“Enough,” he grits out. “That is an outright lie and we both know it. You deserve whatever you want.”

“I deserve whatever I want?” The angel challenges.

Dean feels like this is a trap but he nods to prove his point. 

Cas wets his lips. “I want you, Dean.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and lets his hands slip down the length of Cas’ arm until their hold resettles on the delicate skin of his wrists. For a moment, he sways between the angel’s confession, the feel of his fingertips pressing into flesh, and the urge to recoil from the love Cas is offering up so blatantly.

“I’ll hurt you,” he sighs, a thick shame lacing the tone of his voice. 

“Perhaps, but not intentionally. And that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“Dumbass.” He quips nervously, using crass humor in attempt to mask that he’s on the verge of fleeing the bunker and locating the closest bar to engage in a self-sabotaging bender. 

Cas scoffs. “Kettle meet pot—or however that saying goes.”

Dean exhales, and with it, a small laugh escapes. He feels Cas breaking his hold on his wrists and instead of gripping tighter, he allows it. His fear that the angel might be changing his mind is quickly dismissed when Cas’ fingers snake their way into his palms. His hold is both gentle and sturdy and Dean suppresses a shiver at the long-denied comfort and intimacy it stirs up. 

“Look at me, Dean.” Cas waits patiently. 

The request is somehow daunting. Dean’s head wages a war in the confines of his skull. He wants to peer into those striking azure eyes but he’s afraid of what he’ll see. Sam’s comments from earlier echo through his mind: _“There’s just something there. Certainly love. But maybe even companionship.”_ That’s the part that scares him the most: companionship. A chance in heaven and in hell that someone might want him not just as a warm mouth or a more-than-decent lay, but as a partner. A companion. And not just someone. Castiel. _His_ Cas. _His Cas._

When he finally allows his eyes to squint open, his heart stutters. Not because of the love and adoration he finds etched across the other man’s face, but due to the hope that seems to be emanating from Cas’ entire being. A quiet smile nudges the corners of his mouth, and Dean’s almost certain that a similar hope has to be plastered across his face now as well. Before his brain can resume its path of overanalyzing, he squeezes the hands that rest in his and whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

Cas beams. “I’d like that very much—but there’s something I need first.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow in confusion and amusement as Cas frees his hands to reach into the front pocket of his apron. _That adorable damn apron._ Dean backs up a little in an effort to speed up the process and also to admire the being before him. As his eyes sweep downward, all reservations now proceeded by a building lust, the angel gives a triumphant “aha” and pulls a piece of mistletoe out into the space between them. “I thought I might have a need for this eventually.” 

“Seems a little cocky, don’t you think?” Dean quips with a smirk, enjoying the easy banter that works to cloak any lingering anxiety. 

“I am a man of faith, Dean Winchester. And that faith rests in you.”

Before he can back out, Dean snatches the mistletoe and holds it above their heads. “Come here, you big sap.”

Cas grins and steps into his space. Dean senses his hesitation, perhaps due to Cas’ inexperience, so he uses his free arm to wrap around the angel’s thick waist and pull him flush against his body. He grunts at the feel and his eyes flick to the full, chapped lips he’s helplessly daydreamed about in the past. As his mouth connects with Cas’, he can’t stop the full-body smile it ignites, causing their teeth to clank. The kiss is rather disjointed in terms of technique, but they both come away a little breathless and pink. Although Dean’s insides are humming, he notices the wave of relief that begins in his heart and ends at his toes. He’s relieved. Relieved to finally be here, to finally be allowing himself to love and be loved in this capacity. 

“Merry Christmas, Dean.” Cas says with glazed eyes. 

Dean lets his arm fall and shoves the mistletoe into the pocket of his jeans, so he can grab Cas around the back of the neck and coax him into a more passionate exchange. The angel gasps and grips the sides of Dean’s shirt in surprise. Instead of teeth, Dean’s tongue swipes into Cas’ mouth to explore. He groans at the way the slightly shorter man melts further into him, happy to hold the typically stoic creature upright. 

As he pulls back a second time, albeit a smaller amount, he rests his forehead against Cas’, grinning mostly to himself at the turn of events. “Best Christmas ever, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imaging some smut will take place in the next chapter...
> 
> Comments and kudos recharge my batteries. Thank you in advance.


	3. What We Have is Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hella angsty. Still no smut, but it's coming. Promise.

As the suds of his shampoo cascade down his body and toward the shower drain, Dean allows his right hand to snake its way closer and closer to the erection that lies thick and neglected between the v of his groin. He feels like a damn teenager again, unable to keep his hands from his crotch for more than a handful of hours at a time. But Dean’s been suffering from some serious sexual frustration and far too many cases of blue balls lately. Four weeks have passed since they kissed in the bunker’s kitchen. Four weeks since he let himself embrace his bond with Cas on a whole other level. And in those four weeks, they’ve maybe engaged in some heavy petting at best in the dark confines of his bedroom. And yeah, Dean appreciates the consideration. He’s new to this, to having a male counterpart on the other end, but in a month’s time, he’s yet to get his rocks off by efforts outside of his own. Sure, he’s had one or two minor breakdowns over somewhat coming to terms with his sexuality along the way—Sam says it’s something called “bisexual”—but if he and Cas don’t sprint to a new base soon, he’s going to be cashing in his one-way ticket toward another sort of meltdown. 

He wraps a heavy hand around the base and tugs, allowing the soapy residue that lingers on his hands to ease the movement. He should be chaffing from how much he’s done this in the last 12 hours, but not a single orgasm has left him feeling satisfied. As his head tips back and the crown connects with the shower wall, he releases a low groan at the contrast of the cool tile and the scorching heat of the water pelting his raw skin. 

His imagination wanders to the angel and he envisions Cas’ long, slightly delicate fingers working him under the spray. He pinches an already hard nipple and moans. “Cas,” he whispers lightly, voice still echoing within the stall. 

After five minutes of slick, rhythmic tugs, Dean’s ministrations grow rushed and his breath exchanges in short, wet pants. With one more slide of his hand, he comes, grunting the angel’s name in a whisper. Before he can work to catch his breath, evidence of his release washes away as if it were a fever dream. 

_If only,_ Dean thinks. Because then maybe he could instead wake up to find his hips and groin plastered to the backside of a ready and willing Castiel—versus glaring at the shower curtain like it’s personally wronged him. 

Dean sighs, thick and frustrated.

Following one more quick rinse for good measure, he steps out of the steam-filled shower and yanks a seemingly fresh towel from the rack to dry off. But before he can so much as press the pilling, absorbent material to his skin, his attention is jolted forward at the sound of someone clearing their throat. 

Dean blinks, eyes wide, the towel now doing a poor job at covering his groin.

“Cas,” he pauses. “What are you doing in here?”

“I, uh, I heard you say my name.”

Dean chokes and tries to disguise it as a cough. He silently hopes the heat from the shower is a good enough excuse for the blush that’s, much to his dismay, rising to his cheeks. 

_He didn’t pray to Cas in the midst of his shower session, did he?_

Cas swallows and then opens his mouth in explanation. “You didn’t pray, no. But lately, our connection has been stronger. I-I can hear your thoughts more clearly.”

Dean’s eyebrows just about reach his hairline. _Can you hear what I’m thinking, Cas?_

Cas nods. Dean’s eyebrows stay firm in their elevation as he waits for the angel to elaborate. 

“Ever since we kissed, I can hear what you’re thinking—”

“Like _everything_ I’m thinking?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. Just when it directly involves me.”

“Oh, perfect,” Dean scoffs, voice laced with equal parts sarcasm and embarrassment. “That makes it _so_ much better.” He continues, throwing his hands in the air. Suddenly remembering his state of undress, Dean wraps the rogue towel aggressively around his waist. “Look, I don’t know if celestial beings have the same needs as humans, but we do. _I_ do. So sue me for needing to release some tension in what I assumed was the privacy of the shower. So unless you’re here to lend a—”

“We do—have ‘needs’,” Cas interrupts, fingers offering somewhat pathetic air quotes around the last word, blue eyes glued to the bathroom floor. 

Before he can think better of it, Dean shoots back, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Cas’ eyes flash up, pinning Dean in place with the heat that’s building behind his gaze. “You think I don’t want you, Dean?” Cas asks incredulously. “I’m holding back because you’re not ready.” 

“Not ready?” Dean challenges. “You’re the newbie, man.”

Before Cas can elaborate, there’s a firm knock at the door. “Yeah?” Dean grunts in response, patience wearing thin.

“Ready to go in 10?” The younger Winchester asks through the door. 

“Sure thing, Sammy,” he yells back a little strained, reaching for his clothes.

“Dean,” the angel tries, taking a hesitant step toward the now half-dressed hunter.

Without looking up, Dean says, “You heard Sam. Time to head out.” Although there’s frustration evident in the sigh Cas releases, he lets the argument go, noticing the note of finality in Dean’s voice, and moves to leave the still humid shower room. A burst of cold air from the hallway pushes its way in, causing Dean to shiver slightly as he tugs on a clean flannel.

The tension within the confines of the Impala is palpable. Between the way his jaw is set tight to how his shoulders are hiked up near his ear lobes, he’s certain Sam can sense it. Even without looking at Cas in the backseat. Dean grits his teeth and this time he does pray—not for or to Castiel—but for Sam to remain silent on the matter. His hopes, however, are null and void, when he notices his brother shifting in his seat to glance back and eye the angel in curiosity before returning to face the open road through the windshield. 

“Shouldn’t the honeymoon phase still be in full effect?” Sam mumbles, curiosity and concern peaking.

There’s no malice in it, but that doesn’t stop Dean’s grip on the steering wheel from tightening, knuckles growing impossibly white. “Don’t,” he grits out, side-eying his brother with a gaze he hopes embodies a thousand angel blades. Sam shrugs sheepishly. 

In an attempt to keep his mind off of the thick silence that’s threatening to suffocate him, Dean turns up the volume on the stereo and hums ironically to “Whole Lotta Love” by Led Zeppelin. Eight more hours until they hit Little Rock. _I can make it without combusting, I can hold it together_ , he tells himself.

Aside from a single ten-minute stop at a Gas-N-Sip for fuel for Baby, mixed nuts for Sam, peanut m&m’s for Cas, and a couple of sticks of beef jerky for him, they make it to the motel just outside of Little Rock without any issue. As Dean puts the Impala into park, Sam unbuckles his seat belt and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll go grab us rooms.”

Before he can tell Sam to grab just one, figuring he can further avoid his impending confrontation with a certain angel if Sam is in the room, his little brother is out of the car and heading toward the main entrance of the beaten-down motel. 

Cas is silent and still in the backseat. Dean would almost be worried about his vitals if he hadn’t snuck a few glances through the rearview mirror throughout the drive. At this point, he wants to throttle the angel for managing to remain calm. He wishes Cas would break a little, lose the stoic facade and give him something to work with because right now he’s tired of being the emotional one. Dean _was not_ emotional. 

Once he sees Sam heading back to the car, he opens the door and slips out. Sam tosses him a key. “You two are in room 21, I’ll be in 25.”

Dean eyes him suspiciously. Sam throws his hands up. “We’ve got work to do tomorrow. You and Cas?” He pauses. “Well, you’ve got work to do tonight. Good luck.” 

Dean stands dumbfounded, stuck in place as he watches Sam stroll around the Impala to pop the trunk, retrieve his duffel bagel, and sling it over his right shoulder. As the taller brother rounds the car, he stops where Cas is still sitting in the backseat and motions for the angel to crack the door open. The two exchange a fair amount of words, none of which Dean can make out. After a minute or two, Sam departs and beelines it for his room and offers a curt nod to his brother.

 _Bastad_ , Dean thinks. 

He doesn’t like the idea of Sam crashing alone when they’re on a case, especially one that involves demonic activity. But he has to remind himself that Sam isn’t his helpless, naive little brother anymore. Yes, he’s still hopeful, forgiving, and a little too optimistic for Dean’s taste, but he’s capable, tough, and a hell of a lot smarter than he is. Plus, he knows Sam is attempting to help by staying out of the way of whatever the hell is going on between him and Cas. 

_Right, Cas._

“Sam said he got us our own room.” The angel comments, finally exiting the car.   
  
Dean nods, mouth closed into a tight line. 

“Shall we?”

Dean can’t help but roll his eyes at the angel’s display of politeness and pushes past to grab what’s his from the trunk and lock up Baby before they hole up for the night.

Once inside the $40-a-night room, Dean notices the two twin beds. He wonders if Sam requested the layout after sensing the tension. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. Just as the door shutters closed with a metallic clang, Dean glances back at Cas. He tosses his gear on the bed closest to the window and crosses his arms across his chest. 

Cas sits on the other and stares. 

Without turning, Dean is certain Cas’ eyes are on him. He doesn’t have to see it to know. “What?” He grits out, feeling his confusion and frustration in the form of anger flare up again.

Cas swallows. “We should talk.”

Dean whips around to glare at the angel. “Alright. You want to talk? Let’s talk. How about we start with you telling me _why_ you’re holding back?”

“I don’t think you’re ready.”

“So you said. Care to elaborate?” Dean cocks his head.

Cas sighs but remains steady and seated. “When it comes to physical intimacy with a female, you are versed.” Cas’ response is almost scientific, analytical in his deduction, which only serves to piss Dean off further. “But this, Dean? A vulnerable and intimate bond with a male vessel?”

Although he realizes there’s some truth to the statement, Dean is determined to make the angel spell out, in neon-fucking letters what he’s trying to say. “What the hell are you getting at?”

The angel’s face shifts, creased brow softening and mouth falling into a melancholy frown. He moves from his place on the edge of the bed and strides toward Dean and reaches for his hand when he’s close enough. Cas brings Dean’s knuckles to his mouth and presses his lips to the flesh. Dean shivers involuntarily at the contact. 

“You’ve been taught to see this, _us_ , as a weakness. As a flaw. There’s still so much self-loathing that resides in you. And none of it’s your fault, Dean. Your father not only subjected you to these wounds, but he nurtured them.” 

Dean winces at the mention of John. He’s been trying so damn hard not to give his father a second thought since he kissed Cas in the bunker kitchen. He’s been shoving every raging thought and pang of guilt and shame down into the gut of his belly in hopes that it’ll stay there forever like a dormant monster in the depths of a cave. He doesn’t want to face this, not now, maybe not ever. He doesn’t want to crack and recoil out of fear and old habits. Which he knows is highly probable if he lets his father’s voice into his head. 

Dean tries to breathe through the oncoming wave of panic that’s crashing into him. Fortunately, he supposes, he’s coached Sammy through an attack or two to know how to do this.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In addition to the exchange of air, he hears the sound of his own heartbeat gaining volume. He can hear Cas’ voice too, as he continues to speak, a look of longing and sympathy plastered to his features, well aware of the hunter’s internal monologue. Dean listens to all of it, overwhelmed but also hanging on to every word because he’s terrified of blacking out. 

Cas strokes the top of his hand with his thumb. “Sam got off lucky, but you, you’ve been carrying around this weight of misguided expectation since childhood. As much as I wish to be the one to heal you from this, I can’t, Dean.” Cas’ voice almost breaks at that but he holds it together to finish, “So I most certainly won’t be the one to break you.”

Dean’s chest clenches, and for the first time in hours, it’s from pain rather than anger. He doesn’t want to be a burden, someone Cas has to coddle and care for or tiptoe around. He knows it was silly to think he could bury and camouflage his wounds and live happily ever after, but for once he had hope. He had hope that his damaged and trauma-riddled being and brain could take a backseat to what he and Cas have. Oh, how foolish he was to think for even a second that he could outsmart, outrun what apparently everyone but Dean knew was coming. 

“What we have, Dean, is beautiful. I know you believe that, too. But I need you to be 100% here with me versus stuck in there,” Cas says, hand reaching up to press the pad of his pointer finger into Dean’s temple. “There’s no need to rush, either. I would wait a millennium for you.”

Right then and there, the elder Winchester realizes how ill-equipped he is and how right Cas has been to worry for Dean’s mental health. He feels more exposed than he did this morning in the shower room. Just as the angel had said moments ago, he’s well-versed in physical intimacy, but _this?_ Unconditional, I’ll-wait-until-you’re-ready love? Wide-open feelings and vulnerability, those were the things of Dean’s nightmare, because when he wore his heart on his sleeve, he had grown to expect that it would be squashed or spat on. _“Quit your whining and man up, son. You’re not a pussy,”_ he could hear John say as he tried to swallow back tears. He feels those same tears threatening to spill once again, but this time, instead of holding them in, he lets them breach the threshold and fall. But before Cas can see just how broken and pathetic he already is, he turns for the door and rushes out into the night.


	4. I'm Proud of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Dean is a little reckless, John Winchester is a douche (even beyond the grave), and Castiel is there to save the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut will come in the next and final chapter. Thank you for your patience.

Typically, the gravel crunching beneath the tires of the Impala is music to Dean’s ears, but tonight it’s not enough. He wishes he could turn the volume of the road passing by beneath him up so it would drown out the reel of John Winchester memories that’s playing on an endless loop in his head. Dean’s tempted to press the pedal to the floor and run himself off the damn road to get all of this to cease. He doesn’t want to die, but he does want this to stop. 

Cas had been kind, honest, and loving, but he couldn’t truly see nor hear past the years of trauma the mention of his father’s name in regards to their relationship had dug up. In a matter of mere seconds, his dad’s little digs and not-so-subtle hints when it came to things like men and emotions or men liking other men were occupying every inch of the space between Dean’s ears.  _ “It’s just not normal,” _ he’d say when they spotted two guys sitting oddly close at a diner. Or  _ “Quit staring” _ whenever Dean’s eyes lingered on someone of the same sex a little too long for John’s taste. He wonders what John would think of Cas and his inability to  _ not _ stare at Dean. The angel’s gaze was unsettling at first, causing alarm bells to go off inside Dean’s brain. Perhaps conditioning from how often John would call him out for giving some guy a once-over. Now, however, he gladly returns those unwavering stares. He’s grown to not only find passion in those gazes but reassurance and comfort and sanctuary, too. Just as his heart starts to swell at the realization, suddenly John’s voice is stealing the internal mic back. But this time it’s not a gem of a one-liner from his childhood, no it’s something new, something imagined, and yet it still feels real:  _ “I didn’t raise you to be some queer, Dean.” _

And now he really does consider swerving off the road. But before he can make any rash decisions, a light up ahead on the left catches his eye, redirecting his manic brain to what’s in front of him rather than what’s happening inside of him. When he gets closer, Dean realizes it’s the sign for the bar they passed on the way into town earlier. He cuts the wheel and pulls into the dirt parking lot, eager to greet what’s waiting for him behind the door with the neon-flashing open sign… booze.

Dean takes a seat at the mostly clean and somewhat sticky bar. The place is relatively dead, which isn’t surprising for what he’s fairly certain is a Tuesday night. Arkansas easily passes for home when he’s looking at the inside of a roadhouse. He wishes the blonde bartender would quit cleaning the glass she’s holding and come take his order before he busts out of his skin. His leg won’t quit bouncing and he’s doing his best to not throw a punch at the next thing that walks by.

He gets this way sometimes. Agitated after a trail goes cold. Annoyed when a hunt gets sloppy. Frustrated following an argument with Sam or Cas. And now this. Whatever  _ this _ is. 

Afraid that his father’s voice will soon return if he doesn’t get a drink in his system sooner rather than later, Dean’s patience wears thin and he signals to the bartender with a not-so-subtle cough. She looks up.

“Whiskey. Double.” He grunts.

She eyes him curiously at first, but then something flashes behind her gaze causing a cheshire-like grin to appear. Dean finds this odd and starts to question her behavior, but before he can fall down that rabbit hole, she’s standing in front of him, offering up liquid gold in a tumbler. “Here you go, big guy.”

Dean gratefully accepts the glass and nods his thanks, wholly uninterested in flirting at the current moment. She takes note and resumes her work drying the stack of partially-wet glasses a few feet away. Dean tips the whiskey back and hums. 

The liquor isn’t top shelf by any means, but it burns just the same, warming his chest and throat in seconds. Although he prefers to savor his whiskey, now is not the time and this bar is not the place, so he downs the rest in one swig. He sets the glass down with a clink and taps two fingers against the bar to request a refill. 

The bartender smirks, snatches the half-full bottle from the counter, and saunters over. “You sure you can handle another round so soon?”

Dean scoffs lightheartedly. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She quirks an eyebrow at him. “My name’s Julia, but you can call me Jules.”

It feels forced but Dean manages to smile anyway at her friendliness. “Well, Jules, keep ‘em coming.”

“Whatever you say, cowboy,” she chuckles, pouring two fingers worth of whiskey into the glass. “I’ll be right over here if you need  _ anything _ .”

Not bothering to let Jules set it down, Dean readily accepts the refilled glass. He slugs back half in a few seconds. When he returns his gaze to Jules, he’s met with a suggestive smirk and half-lidded eyes. He’s well aware when someone is flirting with him, but he’s not in the mood to entertain tonight—even just for fun. 

_ “Why? Because you’re too chickenshit?”  _ John’s voice pierces the momentary silence within Dean’s mind. The sudden assault reverberates, ping-ponging off the inside of his skull relentlessly. Dean takes another swig of the whiskey, closes his eyes, and breathes. The air in his lungs comes out in huffs, like a bull on the verge of charging. 

_ “I bet she knows you’re a queer. Pretty boy.” _

“Shut up.” He blurts. 

Jules looks up from behind the bar. “You say something, honey?”

_ “Prove it.” _

“Fuck you.” Dean grits.

“What did you just say to me?” Jules quips, an edge to her voice. 

Dean gulps down what little remains of his drink and slams the glass down on the bar. He notices Jules jump in surprise and waves a hand in apology. He needs to get out of here before he does something reckless. His heart is beating wildly and his skin is starting to get slick with sweat. He feels as though he might explode. 

Dean moves to stand up from his seat. “Sorry, I—”

_ “Show me my son is still a man.” _

And that’s the last straw. Dean’s rage wins out and all he can focus on is proving his father wrong. Proving to John that Dean is still Dean, still a guy’s guy who can shoot the shit and lure any pair of legs into bed with him. A former role Dean has played far too often—the one of charmer and seducer—slips into place. He ignores the way his gut twists, causing his stomach to lurch at the wrongness of it, and does his best to shake the distress that’s vibrating beneath his skin, begging for him to bail. But John’s goading is all he can hear, full of slander and disappointment, so he puts on his most innocent meets confident and cocky face and turns to Jules.

“You said I could ask you for anything, right?” The words taste bitter on his tongue. 

She nods curiously.

“As you can tell, I’m a little tense tonight. What do you say we go blow off a little steam somewhere private?”

Her surprise is quickly replaced by intrigue. She smiles and crooks a finger, encouraging Dean to follow her through a door behind the bar. He moves on autopilot, barely acknowledging the boxes of booze and cleaning supplies they pass before Jules opens another door and suddenly they’re outside. Dean looks up at the Arkansas night sky now directly above him without anything in between. Jules presses both of her palms to his chest and pushes him until his back hits the brick exterior of the roadhouse. 

“For a second there,” she smirks, now running her hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, “I thought maybe you weren’t interested.”   
  
_ “Told you.” _

At the sound of his father’s voice, Dean balls his hands into fists, nails biting into the tender flesh of his palms. 

“How could I not be?” He quips, albeit halfheartedly. 

She flashes a grin at that and takes his hands in hers, threading their fingers, and pins them against the brick. The rough texture bites into the thin skin. Dean tries to focus on the physical feeling versus the turmoil that’s building in his gut. 

“Well, you’re different than most guys around here…” She trails off, leaning forward, eyes locked on his lips.

_ “See. Even she can tell something is off with you.” _

Before Jules can lean in further, Dean questions her. “What do you mean by different?”

She chuckles. “Like that, for instance. Most men wouldn’t care what I had to say.”

He knows exactly what she means. He is or  _ was _ most men—uninterested in anything beyond small talk that eventually led to an end goal: getting laid. But that man feels like a lifetime ago. That man is no longer Dean. No, Dean has changed in countless ways ever since… ever since Castiel showed up in that barn all those years ago. His presence a puzzle piece that slid into place making an unfinished picture whole. And damn is Dean grateful for that picture. A picture where the hunter is no longer carrying the weight of the past and fearing the future. _ I’m so sorry, Cas. _

This isn’t him. Standing outside of this bar with someone he just met is so far from where he truly wishes to be. No, this is scared Dean, fearful Dean. The eldest son who’s afraid of his father’s wrath but somehow still so eager to please. Eager to be on the receiving end of even an ounce of acknowledgment or affection in exchange for another good deed ultimately gone unnoticed. The person Dean is now no longer requires unwarranted approval.

Dean wiggles his hands free from Jules’ grip and places them on her hips to gently push her away. He knows his eyes are shiny from the tears that threaten to fall, but he looks her in the face anyway. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I am different.”

She sighs, unimpressed and waiting for him to continue.

“Look,” Dean says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “There’s someone else and they mean the whole damn universe to me. This was a mistake.”

Jules rolls her eyes animatedly. “There have been rumors about you and the angel. Guess they’re true.” She spits, and then an all-encompassing black begins to dissolve every bit of color from her gaze. 

If there wasn’t a brick wall behind him, Dean would rear back. Instead, he ducks and dodges as the demon lunges forward, hands aiming for his throat. He maneuvers around and reaches for the demon knife in his jacket pocket that the veteran hunter stored there as soon as Sam had mentioned the case appeared to involve demons. Before his hand can wrap around the blade, the demon knocks him off his feet. Dean scrambles back, forearms and elbows cutting into the unforgiving gravel beneath. The demon latches on to his ankle and tugs him right back to where he first landed. 

“I knew you Winchesters were dumb, but not this dumb,” it sneers. “Showing up at a bar solo? Not even your angel boy toy here to save you.”

Dean should feel embarrassed but his fight-or-flight instincts are in the driver's seat leaving no room for shame at the moment. His focus rests solely on retrieving the demon blade from his coat pocket and hoping Cas shows up when he prays. 

The demon snarls, making a show off it. Dean gets the demon blade free and smirks. “At least I came prepared,” he quips, tone laced with somewhat of a forced bravado, while he calls for Cas inside his head.

_ I know you can hear me, Cas. I fucked up royally. I shouldn’t have stormed out but I can’t make it up to you if I’m dead, pal.  _

With the first swipe of the blade, Dean misses, the demon too far out of his reach. He tries to kick his ankle free to gain leverage but fails, flailing awkwardly. 

Just as Dean considers his next move, the demon’s grip on his ankle releases and the body of Jules goes stark still, an angel blade piercing its abdomen from behind. The force at the other end of the celestial weapon pulls the blade back and shoves the demon’s vessel to the side. Castiel peers down at Dean on the ground, face tight with frustration but eyes alight with concern and relief. 

Dean knows he’s looking up at him with an expression that rivals a kicked puppy. “You came.”

“Of course. I can hear your thoughts about me, remember?”

“No, I know,” responds Dean, shaking his head. “Just wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

“Don’t be dense, Dean.” Cas says, offering a hand to haul the hunter up. 

Dean accepts and allows himself to be helped to his feet. Once upright, he contemplates his next move as it relates to Cas. Say nothing and drive back to the motel in silence with the angel hopefully in the passenger seat or swallow his pride and admit how dick-ish he was. He knows he could say nothing else and leave it at that, Cas would tolerate him leaving it at that, but Dean doesn’t think he wants to. Not this time. So he lets go of Cas’ hand only to grab his shoulders, forcing the angel to look at him dead on. 

“Listen, I messed up. I shouldn’t have stormed out. But I think a part of me knew what you were saying was true and I didn’t want to face it,” he starts.

“I didn’t say it to hurt you, Dean.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, swallowing down a laugh at the angel’s ever-present consideration for Dean’s feelings. “I know that. I guess I hoped the hard stuff could be ignored or at least buried.”

Cas’ smile is sad and knowing. He reaches for Dean’s hand and squeezes. “It’s never that easy. Human emotions are complex.”

“No shit,” huffs Dean, voice thick with exaggerated exasperation as his hand squeezes the angel’s slender fingers back. A small pause fills the space between them and the hunter sighs realizing that Cas is waiting for him to continue. “... I heard my dad’s voice tonight. It was like he was inside my head.”

As John’s name slips past his lips and into the Arkansas night, Dean’s instinct is to break his hold on Cas’ hand and add some distance between their bodies. Maybe even look left and then right to make sure no one else is in sight. But he doesn’t. Instead, Dean holds on tighter and steps closer, allowing himself to soak up the familiar comfort the angel’s close proximity provides. 

“I-I don’t know if the voice was actually John or some weird manifestation of myself, but dammit, Cas, it was rough. And the worst part wasn’t even what he or  _ it _ was saying. It was that I listened.”

“Because that’s what you’ve been taught to do. To listen and obey.” Cas explains as if it’s common knowledge. “We were both raised to be soldiers, Dean. To serve and follow protocol.”

Dean clenches his jaw and blinks back a sudden onslaught of tears. He feels Cas’ unoccupied hand come up to cradle the side of his face, thumb running along the sharp bone of his cheek. Dean leans into the featherlight touch. “I don’t want to be my father’s soldier anymore,” the eldest Winchester whispers, barely loud enough to hear.

Cas’ chapped lips stretch into a soft smile. What the angel says next is far from what Dean expects. “I’m proud of you.”

Part of Dean wants to fight it. To tell Cas that he’s absurd for putting any faith into Dean, especially after what he pulled tonight. But he also longs to bask in the praise that’s being offered up so freely. To finally feel good enough. When he looks into the angel’s azure irises, he sees nothing but love and gentleness. Dean wants to wrap himself in it and hibernate. 

“Cas,” Dean says, noticing the way the angel is suddenly bracing for a challenge, expecting Dean to reject the compliment. “What you said back at the motel a-about not being the one to heal or break me…” Dean pauses, surprised by what he’s on the verge of saying and ultimately asking of another being. “I don’t expect you to do either, but can you just  _ be _ with me? C-can you love me while I’m healing, Cas?”

With his hand still holding Dean’s face, Cas moves his gentle hold to grip Dean’s neck and pull the hunter in, connecting their mouths and causing Dean to let out an audible ‘oof.’ He sucks Dean’s lower lip between his, encouraged by the mewl he gets in return. After a beat or two, Cas nips the tender flesh for good measure and parts to speak. 

“I already am and I already do, Dean Winchester.”


	5. Forever And a Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final, smut-filled chapter. Not sure how, but this one got away from me. The other four chapters have all hovered around 2,000 to 2,500 words. This one? It's nearly 5,000. Hope you like soft, loving, gentle, and passionate smut between a hunter and his angel.

The ride back to the motel is silent minus the barely audible sounds of classic rock seeping through the Impala’s speakers. Cas holds Dean’s free hand from the time he puts the car in drive to the time they reach the motel parking lot. The weight and gentle grip of the angel’s hand is a healing balm for Dean’s nerves. He knows he should let go so he can put the car in park and cut the engine, but he doesn’t. Dean’s in no rush to release his hold and it seems that neither is Cas, his thumb continuing to rub a circular pattern into the delicate skin between the hunter’s thumb and pointer finger. Without moving his head or neck, Dean’s eyes shift over to Cas. He drinks in the angel’s side profile that’s silhouetted by the glowing neon “vacancy” sign overhead. Cas notices and smiles. The smile is subdued and calm but it’s there, for Dean’s eyes only. 

Dean follows the angel’s gaze as it leaves his and peers through the windshield, landing on the door of room 25. 

“Should we wake Sam and let him know that we found and killed the demon?”

Dean chuckles lightly. “Nah, we’ll surprise him in the morning. Let Goldilocks rest.”

“And what about you?”

Dean’s brow creases. “What about me?”

“Don’t you need your rest?” Cas quips, tone both sincere and just a touch teasing. 

In response, Dean scoffs jokingly, “If four hours equates to beauty rest, then yeah, I sure do. Don’t need my crow’s feet getting any deeper.”

Cas turns to face the eldest Winchester brother. “Crow’s feet?” He asks, voice laced with genuine confusion.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s what people call the wrinkles that show up in the corners of your eyes. They look like crow’s feet.” He can’t stop himself from spreading his free hand dramatically to resemble talons. 

Much to Dean’s dismay, Cas breaks their prolonged hand-holding and slips his fingers and palm free. Before he can protest or grab it back, the angel is moving it up and over to the hunter’s face. A nimble thumb comes to rest in the shallow but still noticeable wrinkles that decorate the outskirts of Dean’s eyes. Cas traces the lines a few times. “I love your crow’s feet. They’re most noticeable when you smile or laugh.”

The compliment is pure and earnest. Dean sucks in his cheeks in an attempt to bite back the smile it’s causing. The blush that’s rising to his face, however, is a lost cause. With his right hand now unoccupied, Dean shifts Baby into park, lets his foot off the brake, and takes the keys out of the ignition.

“No point in asking you about sleep,” Dean grunts, trying to ignore the way Cas’ digits are now trailing along his stubbled jaw. 

“I may not need sleep, Dean,” the angel whispers into the confines of the car, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t benefit from resting.” Dean opens his mouth to question, but Cas explains before he can utter a response. “Especially when it involves you.”

***

Dean wakes up far more than four hours later. His head is pillowed on Cas’ chest and there’s a little bit of drool pooling on the angel’s dress shirt. He should probably find a tissue to sop it up with but he’s too comfortable to convince himself to move. Dean tries to stifle a yawn and fails.

“Sleep well?” Cas asks, disrupting the silence with a voice that comes out thick. Dean doesn’t have to look to know that the dark-haired man is watching him with his head propped up by the headboard of the creaky bed. 

He nods gently into the angel’s chest and lets the arm that’s draped across Cas’ warm torso tighten. “It would seem so,” he slurs out, sleep still lingering. “I think I could honestly fall back asleep…” Dean trails off, noting the awe and wonder that’s evident in his own tone. It’s rare that he isn’t up and at ‘em by sunrise. 

With the hand that isn’t already rubbing soothing motions into the center of the hunter’s back, Cas begins to card slender fingers through what Dean assumes is a pretty spectacular case of bed head.

While they didn’t get up to anything after returning to their home away from home last night, they certainly hadn’t fallen asleep in this position. No, it started with Cas spooning a somewhat stiff Dean. Although it had been what he wanted, Dean still struggled to relax into the comfort, into the welcomed embrace. John’s voice hadn’t resurfaced since the showdown behind the roadhouse, but Dean was weary. Almost afraid that as soon as he let his guard completely down, another one of his father’s degrading one-liners would bust through the radio silence. And if it did, he was worried his initial reaction would be to shove Cas off, sending the absolute wrong message.

“I’m afraid his voice is going to come back,” he had mumbled into the forearm that was cradling his head, just loud enough for the angel to hear.

Cas leaned forward to press a kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck, leaving his lips to rest there as he spoke. “Don’t be. You’re safe.”

Dean had wanted to protest. To go into a long-winded rant about all of the things that had the very real potential of going wrong before the sun even came up: His father finding a megaphone beyond the grave and using it to broadcast his thoughts into Dean’s head; an intruder breaking through what appeared to be a janky deadbolt and some worn hinges keeping the door to their motel room both locked and attached; the demon finding another vessel and expediting itself from the confines of hell so it could seek revenge and come back to kick their asses. 

But before he could properly vocalize his somewhat warranted concerns, Cas spoke once more, the rumble of his voice bouncing off the sensitive skin of the hunter’s neck.

“Sleep, Dean. I’ve got you.”

Whether due to growing grogginess or a true feeling of reassurance, Cas’ words evaporated Dean’s unspoken worries, and a minute later his body went lax and his breathing evened out. 

And now, with the morning sun peeking through the shotty, dingy curtains of the rented room, Dean can feel the same comforts of sleep starting to cloud his vision and fill his head with warmth. He decides resistance is futile and basks in the on-going head massage Cas has yet to cease. 

Just as his eyelids fall shut, there’s a knock at the door. 

Dean groans. _ Right, Sam. _

The drive back to Kansas is uneventful in the best way possible. Although rather curious about the  _ how _ , Sam is pleasantly surprised to learn that their hunt had been completed all while he was holed up in the motel sleeping and reading up on lore. Dean spares him (and himself) the details when he breaks the news and simply tells his younger brother to get in the car, more specifically, the backseat. To that, Sam gives him a scandalized look. But Dean’s enthusiasm overpowers any lingering embarrassment as he sets out to continue his reconciliation with Cas through hand holding and stolen glances. For almost half of the eight-hour trek, Dean somehow manages to keep one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road. 

When they reach the bunker, a well-rested and energized Sam suggests an evening of pizza, beer, and card games. As much as Dean wants to continue adoring Cas, preferably in private, he agrees, unable to disappoint his little brother. The angel, of course, nods—neither partial nor impartial to the idea.

In an hour’s time, Sam returns with two large pies, one with cheese and some rabbit food atop it for him, the other covered in mounds of pepperoni, ham, and two types of sausage—that one is for Dean. They might be blood, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean their tastes are the same. In food, in clothes, in music and movies, in respective partners—speaking of which, his is currently striding through the doors of the study with three beers in his grip.

“You really are an angel,” Dean smirks, eyelashes fluttering for dramatic effect.

“Your pick up lines are getting worse,” deadpans Cas, azure eyes rolling slightly. Dean pretends to be offended while still accepting the drink. 

As Cas is opening his beer and Sam is mulling over which slice to take, Dean pauses and admires the scene playing out before him. A hunt gone right. Greasy food and cold beer. A care-free Sam. An always-sarcastic but content angel. And Dean, well, he hasn’t heard a peep from John in almost 20 hours so he’s aces. 

_ This, right here, is the good stuff. _

After three or four rounds of poker and a satiated belly, Dean folds his hand for good. The decision made easy thanks to the shit cards he’s holding and the half-hard erection that’s pressing incessantly at the zipper of his jeans. The last bit certainly caused by his moronic and sadistic choice to watch Cas’ mouth every single time he went to take a swig of his beer throughout the evening. 

“I’m tapping out,” he announces a little too loudly. “That motel bed did me in. Pretty sure I have a permanent indent from one of the springs poking me in the side.”

Cas opens his mouth, probably to debunk Dean’s statement considering he spent the majority of last night sleeping on the angel rather than the motel bed itself. Dean raises a hand to stop him. Cas closes his mouth and squints up at the hunter, perhaps a little annoyed.

Sam, unaware of the somewhat silent side conversation, interrupts. “Can’t handle a late night  _ or _ a worn-out mattress anymore? Your age is showing,” he quips, laughing at his own joke. 

“Laugh it up, Sammy. You’re not far behind me, man.”

The brothers rib each other back and forth for a minute, and all the while Dean is thinking of an alternative way to outwardly voice his hope for a certain angel to follow suit and call it a night. He doesn’t want to unnecessarily scar Sam with his— _ fingers crossed _ —sex life, but he will if he has to. 

_ Cas,  _ he prays _. That was an open invitation, by the way. _

Cas raises his brows. Message coming through loud and clear. “O-oh.” Dean’s eyes gloss over as he tracks the angel’s adam apple as it bobs from an unexpected swallow. “I’ll be excusing myself as well,” continues Cas, rising from the chair. “I’m feeling a bit drained too.”

Without actually confirming, Dean knows there’s a strange but knowing expression that’s making its way across his brother’s face. “You don’t sleep, Cas,” Sam states plainly. 

The angel appears flustered and both Winchesters watch on rather amused, albeit for slightly different reasons. 

Sam is entertained, whereas Dean, well, he’s a little hot under the collar watching a capable and skilled warrior of heaven struggle to find the right words all because Dean invited him to bed.

The brothers let the torture continue a beat or two longer until Sam spares the shifty-eyed and open-mouthed Cas by interrupting him. “Get out of here,” the younger Winchester chuckles playfully. “Just whatever you do, don’t let me hear you,” Sam pleads. 

Dean gives him a lame thumbs up, turns on his heel, and heads for the door—feeling fairly certain Castiel will follow without further ushering. Before he’s out of earshot, he hollers a “Night, Sammy” to his brother. As expected, Dean’s ears pick up the click of those black boots echoing behind him when he rounds the corner of the hallway. 

Once within the parameters of his room, Dean waits for the sound of the door closing before he starts stripping down to just his boxers and an undershirt. “Would you lock it too?” he asks, still facing the dresser that’s pressed up against the lone brick wall of the bedroom. He’s got one foot out of his jeans and both socks off when the lock snaps into place. “Thanks,” he says, tone neutral. 

A moment or two passes and then Dean turns to find Cas perched on the edge of the mattress, toeing off his shoes. The angel’s tan trench coat and blue tie are draped over the trunk that sits at the end of Dean’s bed; the first button of his stark white dress shirt is open. 

Although his eyes are half-lidded at this point, the hunter watches with rapt attention, noting the care and precision the other man exudes with even the most mundane tasks. Undressing, pouring a drink following a grueling hunt, putting a pot of coffee on for the sake of his human companions’ mental states—whether it’s the first time or the hundredth time, Cas is invested. It’s as if he knows something that mortal men fail to grasp—like time is a human construct and nothing matters but what’s here and now, or that everything is truly finite so why move so hard and fast into a future that isn’t really guaranteed? Dean knows he could learn a thing or two from the angel, hell, he  _ has _ learned a thing or two—but right now, he longs for something else. 

The silence in the room is noticeable but by no means uncomfortable. Dean thinks he could stand here for hours on end simply existing within Cas’ atmosphere if the world would allow it. His undivided attention is certainly bordering on creepy but the eldest Winchester doesn’t quite know what to do or say next so he waits, quietly hoping the angel will shoulder the weight of this moment. 

Cas heeds Dean’s call without hesitation. “Would you like me to hold you again?” he asks, tone sincere and gaze now angled up toward Dean.

Dean blushes, a rosy and warm hue coloring his cheeks in the dim light of his bedroom. It’s an innocent and even warranted question, but for one reason or another, it makes him feel small and vulnerable. Cas must sense his mild panic.

“—Or you could hold me,” he offers. “Celestial beings aren’t creatures of habit like humans. Both positions have their benefits...”

Dean notices the edge of concern in Cas’ voice, as though the angel is now worried he minimized Dean’s masculinity  _ and _ personal preference all in one. But beyond that, there’s also a hopefulness to his tone. As if Cas is hoping this invitation to join the hunter in bed will involve a repeat of closeness and comfort. 

_ Perhaps Cas found an oasis in our overnight embrace just as much as I did.  _

The thought soothes Dean’s nerves and even gives him a boost of confidence to say the words that come next. 

“I’d like that. But how about  _ after _ ,” he smiles, a little coyly. 

“After?” The angel’s voice hitches, his face now curious without giving a stitch of anything else away.

_ Here goes nothin’, _ Dean thinks.

“I want to be with you, Cas. 100%. Every damn string attached.”

Cas’ eyes widen and his jaw goes slack as though Dean just propositioned him with something unholy—and he supposes, in a way, he just did. When Cas realizes his face is betraying his usual stoic aura, he looks down at his hands and plays with the cuffs of the dress shirt he’s wearing.

Dean doesn’t know whether to be infatuated by the genuine innocence of it, or to worry that this reaction is proceeding a rejection of sorts. The hunter breathes in deep, trying to slow his soon-to-be spiraling thoughts. On the third exhale— _ yes, he’s counting _ —Cas speaks into the hovering stillness of the bedroom. 

“I have to ask, in good conscience, if you’re certain about this?”

Dean’s heart jumps with renewed hope. Cas isn’t saying no. He isn’t telling Dean he’s too broken and bruised and traumatized. Maybe Cas can sense it, can sense that the chains that once bound his soul to beliefs of wrongness and self-loathing have begun to break; beliefs that were never truly his.

_ Tell him. Tell him what’s happening inside of you. _

“The shit with my dad… I know it isn’t dealt with, but I am dealing with it,” he pauses, looking up at the ceiling in search of what to say next. “Things have and are shifting inside me, somehow. I don’t know how to explain it, Cas, but I’m becoming—”

“You’re becoming who you were meant to be,” Cas blurts out abruptly while standing up to meet Dean where he’s planted. “You’re becoming a man who values loyalty but not above love. A man who is strong but doesn’t view vulnerability as a weakness. A man who knows he can let go of the trauma he’s carrying and just be.” 

Not only the words but the passion and certainty that are encompassing the angel’s expression leave the hunter on the verge of speechlessness. Cas isn’t spewing blasphemous propaganda, no, Dean can tell he believes each and every word he’s speaking into existence—as if whatever monumental shift Dean’s in the midst of is the damn gospel itself. 

The hunter swallows and nods, still taken aback. “Yeah...that,” he utters, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure I could have said it more eloquently, but you did a decent job,” Dean jokes.

The smirk that appears on Cas’ wide, full lips is the perfect juxtaposition to the way his sky-blue eyes are crinkling and gleaming with sudden wetness. The entire map of his face exudes fondness, and although it’s something Dean is often on the receiving end of when it comes to the angel, he’s never let himself revel in it. But this time, this time he does. Cas reaches forward to tug on the soft, threadbare t-shirt Dean’s wearing and draws the hunter into his space with ease. Dean goes willingly. 

When Cas starts to lean in, gaze flickering to his lips, Dean mirrors him without question. The impending pleasure build and release kicks the hunter’s nerves off and flicks his excitement on full blast. 

Their mouths meet in a borderline chaste kiss that’s brimming with the promise of more. Dean deepens it, gripping the back of Cas’ neck and licking into his warm mouth. The angel moans low, which causes Dean’s half-hard cock to twitch and fill in interest. As he alternates between sucking and nipping at the angel’s plump bottom lip, Dean feels the tips of Cas’ fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt. Dean releases his hold on Cas’ neck and lifts his arms over his head, silently giving the angel permission to remove it. Once it’s out of the way, Cas presses his palms to Dean’s chest in a sturdy and still manner. Dean notes the look of bewilderment and amazement that’s playing out across his features. 

Cas shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “In all my time in heaven and on earth, I’ve never felt so connected to another being before,” he confesses.

“Me neither, Cas. You’re it for me.”

Dean watches as his words ignite a carnal need within the man before him. Suddenly Cas’ hands and ministrations are no longer gentle and subdued. They are hurried and determined to rid both the hunter and himself of the remaining clothes that decorate their respective bodies. Dean gets on board immediately and starts popping the buttons on Cas’ dress shirt with skill. 

Just as he’s guiding the shirt free from olive skin, Dean attaches his mouth to the delicate lobe of Cas’ ear and whispers, “I got you.” The whimper the angel bites out in response does wondrous things for Dean’s ego. 

Emboldened by the sounds and reactions he’s pulling from Castiel, Dean strips them both bare and guides Cas to lay down on the bed. 

Before the backs of his knees connect with the mattress, Cas maintains his balance and huffs out a breathless, “Wait.” The angel stands stark naked, drinking in the sight of an equally exposed hunter. 

Dean is far from shy when it comes to this stuff, but the gaze he’s on the receiving end of is unlike any other. “Getting your fill?” Dean jokes, hoping to quell the anxiety that's blossoming in his gut. 

“I rebuilt you, Dean. I know your body inside and out—but not quite like this. Witnessing you in such a state is something else entirely.” 

Part of Dean wants to fumble over another wisecrack to deflate the intensity, but he feels compelled to remain mute, waiting for the angel’s next instruction. 

_ I would do anything he said, _ Dean thinks. 

“Anything?”

Dean nods. “I trust you, Cas.”

Dean’s sincere words cause Cas to move, grabbing the hunter by the hips and twisting them around so that Dean is now the one being pushed onto the bed. Dean yelps and watches with a glazed expression as the angel climbs on top of him, spreading his legs so Cas can slot his lower half between them. Their hardened lengths catch with the position and they moan low and deep in unison. Dean latches on to the column of his lover’s neck, sucking at his Adam's apple while Cas ruts slow and steadily with his groin. A particular catch causes Dean’s hips to lift up off the bed and seek out more friction. He whines when Cas puts space between them and sits back on his haunches. 

“How,” Cas hesitates. “How do you want to do this?”

As difficult as it is, Dean holds his gaze when answering. “I want you inside me.”

Cas beams and bends in half to kiss Dean. As their lips lock, a soothing and somewhat familiar heat builds in Dean’s backside. It reminds him of the feeling he gets when the angel uses his grace to heal him. His eyes widen in realization.

“D-did you just use your grace to—” The hunter pants. 

“Open you up? Yes.”

“Well that’s handy—or perhaps we should call it ‘hands-free’?” Dean almost giggles. Cas shakes his head, amused by the childish antics.

Knowing he’s already prepped, Dean reaches blindly into the bedside table and hoots triumphantly when he finds what he was searching for. Cas tries to snatch the bottle but Dean swats his hand away. The hunter pours the liquid in his palm and extends his arm forward to grasp the thick girth of the angel’s hard and leaking cock. Once satisfied, Dean bends his knees to his chest and guides Cas toward his entrance. 

Prepped by grace or not, there’s still a slight burn that Dean has to breathe through. 

“I’ll go slow. Tell me if it hurts, Dean.”

Dean nods, eyes closed. By the time Cas is halfway in, he already feels full in the most satisfying of ways. Unable to wait any longer, Dean extends his legs and hooks his ankles around Cas’ back, pulling him all the way in.

_ Finally, Cas. _

“Finally, what?” questions the angel, throat tight and noticeably unsteady as he does his best to not move an inch.

Dean isn’t sure whether he actually said that out loud or if Cas heard his thoughts, either way, he smiles at the unabashed curiosity that seems to stem from the angel no matter the situation. “It’s just—this feels  _ right _ . Can’t believe we made it,” he chokes out.

“We were always going to get here, Dean,” Cas reassures him. “I’ve always had faith in this. In us.”

Dean makes a halfhearted attempt at holding back the tears that are now pushing at the corners of his meadow green eyes. When he realizes the emotion is stemming from a source of love and joy, he releases the breath he’s harboring and lets the proverbial dam break. The sensation is foreign but also relieving. He’s relieved to not have to be so damn frightened of his emotions and displaying them. He’s safe here in the bunker and in Cas’ embrace.   
  
Cas doesn’t question the tears and instead leans down to press butterfly kisses to the apples of Dean’s moist cheeks.”Thank you for letting me see you.”

Dean simply nods and fights back the urge to turn his face into the pillow and hide.

“Pray to me, Dean. Tell me what you want,” Cas commands into the tiny space that’s between them. 

Now it’s Dean’s turn to whimper. Without hesitation, he closes his eyes and prays. 

_ Make love to me, Cas. Show me we’re real. _

Cas pulls halfway out of Dean before rocking back in. The hunter fists the sheets and groans. The rhythm Cas builds is sensual and loving, as if he’s conveying devotion through the movement of his hips. 

Without warning, the angel grips the backs of Dean’s bent knees in both hands and hooks them over his shoulder. The position change causes the angle to shift and when Cas thrusts back in, he finds Dean’s prostate with the head of his cock. 

“T-there, Cas. Right there,” he cries out.

Dean’s calloused and weathered hands roam the expanse of Cas’ broad back, noting every notch and dip. He wonders what it would feel like if the jet black wings he knows exist in some realm were to manifest here and now. He imagines running his fingers through the silken feathers and bearing witness to how Castiel would react to the affection. His body shivers involuntarily at the thought. 

The angel atop him continues his thrusts but pauses his attack on Dean’s throat to quirk an amused eyebrow at the hunter. 

Realizing his musings had an audience, Dean blushes pink. 

“Something to investigate at a later date?”

Dean tries not to whimper but fails miserably. “Yeah,” he breathes out into the junction of the angel’s neck and shoulder. 

Cas seems pleased with that response and puts more power behind his thrusts and reaches between their bodies to circle Dean’s leaking cock with his fist. The rhythm of his tugs matches the in-and-out timing of his hips in a matter of seconds. 

“H-how are you so good at this?” The hunter grits out. 

Dean feels Cas smile into his skin. “I’ve contemplated it quite often,” the angel grunts between wet pants, his usual straight demeanor crumbling to allow pleasure to thrive in its place. “I did my research as well.”

For a brief moment, Dean imagines Cas searching the study for texts on fornication, maybe even popping into a bookstore and stumbling upon a  _ Gay Sex For Dummies _ manual and purchasing it without hesitation. “Fucking hell, man. That’s incredibly dorky but somehow it’s making me more aroused,” he laughs. 

“That’s certainly part of my charm,” Cas agrees nonchalantly.

The conversation fizzles out and is replaced by soft grunts, the sound of skin meeting skin, plus a rather frequent ‘uh’ from Dean whenever Cas nudges his prostate or swipes the head of his dick with the pad of his thumb on the upstroke. 

Dean feels his gut tighten from the heat that’s pooling in his groin. “I’m close, C-cas,” he warns, fingers gripping harder and nails digging into the flesh of the angel’s back. He knows he’s going to leave marks but he’s too far gone to relent. 

“Me too, Dean. Can I—can I come inside you?”

What little restraint Dean was harnessing dissolves in an instant. His cock twitches between their bodies as he tumbles enthusiastically over the edge of his orgasm, painting Cas’ hand and his own abdomen with his release. Cas fucks him through it, but Dean can tell he’s holding off, still waiting for permission from the hunter. Dean’s heart swells at the thought. 

“Come inside me, Cas,” Dean whispers into the angel’s ear, hands stroking the length of his sweat-slick back. “I want you to.”

The moan Cas vocalizes is thick and laced with pure arousal; it makes Dean’s softening cock twitch. 

Dean continues cooing into the angel’s ear, noting that Cas’ thrusts have now become erratic as he nears his release. “Let go, angel.”

Cas responds in kind and gives one final shove of his hips, spilling into Dean. He collapses in a heap onto the hunter’s chest and sighs. The quiet “oof” from Dean doesn’t go unnoticed, and Cas starts to lift himself up on rubbery limbs to pull out—but before he can, Dean latches on to him, arms and legs looping around the angel’s body. 

_ Not yet, Cas. Stay. _

Cas nods and relaxes, neither bothered by the mess that’s now drying between them. 

“As long as you want, love,” mumbles a spent Cas into Dean’s breastbone. 

Dean hums and cards his hand through Cas’ already wild and untamed hair.

_ Forever?  _ He prays.

“Forever and a day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are so appreciated. Thank you in advance. It's been so nice writing this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments recharge my creative batteries. 
> 
> Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading my words and for supporting my unexpected deep-dive back into the Supernatural fandom. For the most part, I'm happy to be here.


End file.
